


Driving Lessons

by tjmystic



Series: Raising Boys [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 12:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14164662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjmystic/pseuds/tjmystic
Summary: Bobby teaches Castiel how to drive.





	Driving Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Bobby doesn't get enough love, so I'm seeking to rectify that. Each of the fics in this series is going to focus on Bobby experiencing the "joys" of surrogate fatherhood. This first one focuses on Bobby and Cas, but most of the fics will deal with him taking care of Sam and Dean as children.

 

There were a lot of things Bobby never signed up for.  Taxes, for one thing, or a lifetime subscription to _Better Homes and Gardens_.  Not that that kept the damn tax collectors away, or the magazines from showing up on his doorstep every month like clockwork.  But that was just the way of the world, wasn't it?  Bobby Singer made a point not to do things, and he ended up doing them anyway. 

Take John Winchester.  The universe's perpetual cracked up sense of humor was the only way Bobby could justify spending any time with that dickhead.  He knew from the first time he met him, drunk and bloody and lugging Rufus over his doorstep, that no good was gonna come from him.  He mighta fooled a lot of people with that intense drill sergeant shtick, but, well, Bobby wasn't a lot of people.   John was a boy.  Didn't matter that he was just four years younger than Bobby himself, he was a _boy_.  Juvenile.  Obsessed.  Dangerous. 

He was also, as it turned out, a father. 

Bobby still remembers the first time he ever saw Dean.  Boy was just shy of six years old, snot-nosed and pudgy faced and absolutely swallowed by a ratty leather jacket.  He clutched a silver knife in one hand, and his brother's drool-covered fist in the other.  He won't admit it now, but he was too stunned to react when John stomped in behind them.

He went on about some hunt in Nebraska - cattle murders, looked like either witches or demons - about how he couldn't afford to be distracted and Bobby seemed responsible.  He handed him a ratty paper with the name of some hotel, the alias "Johnny Rivers", and a list of numbers for five different burner cells.  He shook Bobby's hand, clapped Dean on the shoulder with a stern, "Watch out for Sammy," and drove off in that Godforsaken Impala. 

It wasn't until a solid fifteen seconds after the dust had cleared that Bobby realized what had happened.

Bobby stared at Dean.  Dean stared at Bobby.  Sam stared at his fist, then started blinking rapidly in a way that Bobby would soon learn meant, "I'm tired as balls and trying to fight it." 

Eventually, Dean left to make the kid a place on the couch, humming something about a "sister Christian" high and off key until Sam went to sleep.  Bobby just watched on in shock, his arms crossed over his chest, because what the hell else do you do when a goddamn six-year-old is acting more like a parent than anyone you've ever seen in your life?  But Dean, after rustling Sam's baby hair out of his eyes, just stood there, looking every bit as lost as Bobby felt.  His fingers twitched at his sides in a pretty good imitation of Clint Eastwood in _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_ , and a film dropped over his eyes that locked away all the tenderness he apparently saved only for his brother.  Bobby felt like a damn fish trying to pilot an airplane, but even he knew that something was wrong with this picture. 

He'd never babysat before, hadn't even been around any kids since he was one himself, but he knew that everybody had to eat and most kids liked cartoons.  So, he made Dean a grilled cheese with bacon on it, set him front of the TV with the remote, and told him to make himself at home while he did research.  They spent the next three days in a similar pattern - Bobby made food, Dean watched Sam and the TV, and Sam huddled into his brother's side until he inevitably fell asleep.  The moment they were out of the house and back in the Impala, Bobby let loose a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and finished half a bottle of scotch he'd kept hidden for a rainy day.  Damn if it wasn't pouring right then. 

The second time was a little easier.  Bobby knew what to expect, and he was ready to head John off as soon as he saw the boys trotting up behind him.  Hunting was no place for little boys, but neither was Singer Salvage, and he was gonna make damn sure that John Winchester knew it.  He even had a card from some woman at Child Protective Services, and he wasn't above shoving that in the prick's face.  But then Sam ran up to him on his goofy little baby legs and tugged at his pants, and Dean asked shyly if he could have one of them grilled cheeses, and he knew that he'd been beat.  John gave him a new list with new numbers and new aliases, and Dean parked himself and Sam in front of the TV. 

By the end of the week, Bobby had taught Dean how to count to 1,000 and play "Go Fish", and Dean had taught Bobby how to rock Sam to sleep when he was trying particularly hard to fight it. 

Twenty-two years later, Dean told Bobby that he was the closest thing he had to a father.  And of all the damned things Bobby Singer had never signed up for, being a father was the one he'd avoided most deliberately. 

That didn't keep him from getting it in spades anyway. 

Somewhere between, "Like Hell are you leaving these kids with me again, John," and, "Family don't end in blood," Bobby went from having no kids to having two.

Well, two boys, anyway.  Granted, Dean and Sam were… _exceptional_ boys, on a universal scale, but they were still just boys.  Just humans.  Try as he might to avoid parenthood, human children were at least a plausible possibility. 

An angel, though?  A winged, multi-dimensional free-faller who took the form of some sort of tax accountant?  Yeah, Bobby didn't even know _where_ he signed up for that one.

But there he was - not nearly drunk enough, sitting in the passenger seat of a beat-up sedan, teaching a billion-year-old _thing_ in a forty-year-old man's body how to drive. 

"Alright, Cas, let's try it again," he huffed.  "And, this time, keep your foot on the brake when you shift gears, okay?"

Beside him, Cas shifted in his seat like a pouty teenage girl.  "This seems counterintuitive.  I'm trying to make it go _forward_ , why do I press the pedal that makes it _stop_?"

Bobby rolled his eyes - Dean owed him a drink (or twelve) for this. 

"Yeah, but right now, you're in reverse.  Unless you want to strip the gears, you gotta stop the damn thing before you switch it to go forward."

Again, Cas just pouted.  Damn if he couldn't be a scary son of a bitch when he wanted to be - their first meeting was testament to that - but, right now, he looked like Bobby had sent him to his room without supper.

"That isn't how Dean drives."

"Yeah, well, when you're in the car, Dean is usually tryin' to get the hell outta Dodge.  Plus - and I will throttle you if you tell him this - he knows how to handle a car better than the both of us anyway."  Bobby took off his hat and threw it into his lap.  "Now, quit yakkin' about your boyfriend and keep your eyes on the road, dammit." 

Cas cocked his head, obviously confused about something Bobby had said (and that wasn't anything new).  To his immense relief, though, the angel let it go, and, with a world-weary sigh, changed from reverse to drive, this time keeping his foot on the brake.  When the car didn't spontaneously combust, he let go of the gear shift and pressed on the gas.  It didn't jerk nearly as bad as it had the first five times.

"See, was that so hard?"

The angel only grunted in response, but Bobby could see a muscle twitch in his cheek.  The little guy almost looked pleased with himself. 

He turned the wheel easily onto the dirt road, pointing it back in the direction of the salvage yard. 

"I do appreciate you taking the time to teach me," Cas muttered, after a moment.  "I fear that this is going to become increasingly common for me, if the last few weeks are any indication.  My grace…"  He sighed, fingers flexing on the wheel.  "It's dwindling." 

Bobby didn't want to think about that.  He'd been banking on Cas's mojo to save the day.  Maybe Sam and Dean wouldn't admit to that, but Bobby had no problem being honest with himself.  At least, not about matters of life and death.  And this was _the_ matter of Life and Death, capitals and everything.  Considering his legs were still screwed up six ways from Sunday, though, considering that Cas hadn't even tried to fix them, he really should've seen this coming. 

Cas, thankfully, didn't seem to notice Bobby twiddling his thumbs in the passenger seat.  "I was wondering, actually, if I could take one of the cars from your lot.  I'd pay you, of course, though, with what, I'm not sure."

"As long as ya ain't plannin' to pay me with lip service."

Cas looked away from the road just long enough to scrunch his face up at him.  "My vessel's lips aren't detachable."  

Bobby snorted.  Serious as he was, Cas could be damn hilarious.  He almost hated to admit it, but the angel had kinda grown on him. 

He wiped that thought away as quickly as it popped up.  He was getting sappy in his old age.

"Just pick one off the lot when we get back.  It ain't gonna cost me anything to let you borrow one.  Besides, I wouldn't hear the end of it if either of us suggested lettin' you drive Dean's baby.  He's obsessed with that damn thing."  The sedan bounced as Cas pulled it into the driveway.  Bobby held onto the door to keep from tipping over.  "What'd he say about all this, anyway?  You learnin' how to drive and gettin' your own wheels?"

Cas furrowed his brow.  "He told me not to buy a truck or drink absinthe.  I assumed it was a euphemism."

Bobby cocked his eyebrows.  "Well, it ain't one I've ever heard."

The angel didn't seem any more or less confused by that than he did with most things concerning Dean.  He didn't ask any more questions, though, so Bobby counted himself lucky.

They parked the car with minimal carnage (by which Bobby meant that Cas dented the bumper backing into a tree).  He even kept his foot on the brake when he switched from drive, to reverse, to park.  Bobby patted him on the shoulder before he could thank better of it, but Cas didn't say anything.  It was, however, the first time Bobby had ever seen him smile.

Apparently, old dogs _could_ be taught new tricks. 

Then again, Bobby himself was testament to that.  Just look at him - wrong side of fifty, no legs, with two human sons and, apparently, an angelic one, too. 


End file.
